Deathsman's Meed
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: 95K On the eve of colonization it's time for Krycek to pay the piper.


# Deathsman's Meed

  
  
  
  


## Table of Contents

[Chapter 1][1]

[Chapter 2][2]

[Chapter 3][3]

[Chapter 4][4]

[Chapter 5][5]

[Chapter 6][6]

[Chapter 7][7]

[Chapter 8][8]

[Chapter 9][9]

[Chapter 10][10]

[Chapter 11][11]

[Epilogue][12]

## Chapter 1 

  
  


At first he didn't recognize her-haggard, pale, smoky voice reduced to a ragged whisper-chained to one of those damn tables. His horror must have shown in his face for she cringed, turned her head away. Which was just as well for _she_ wasn't on the agenda. He had to find Cassandra before _they_ did or things would, literally, all go to Hell.

"Krycek," she cried weakly.

Regret darkened his eyes before they were obscured behind the closing door.

But he had been too late-too late for Cassandra, for that poor imbecile Jeffrey Spender, for _her_. After that debacle in the hangar there was nothing to do but sift through the debris of the lab for _anything_ that might be of assistance to the Human Resistance in improving the reliability of their precious vaccine. Now that the Grays had Cassandra, The Day would come all too soon. So he stirred in the ruins of the lab, his curses echoing through the empty halls. They had trashed the computers; nothing useful remained. He spun on his heel and walked cat-like down the hall, intent on finding the exit, but something moved, off to the right, about 20 feet down the hall. He flattened against the wall, thumbing off the safety on his weapon. He crept silently down the hall, ears straining to locate any noise. After about 10 feet he could have sworn he heard a soft gasp. Another 3 feet and he heard labored breaths unsuccessfully concealed. Two more feet and he stopped looking and listening. He felt it; he felt _her_.

Watery blue eyes flashed from behind a file cart. He pulled the cart away and she shrived pitifully, balling up against the wall.

He holstered his weapon and held out his good hand, "Hey, they're gone." His voice was soothing and his movements measured and reassuring. He leaned down to take her hand and-

She sprung, flattening him against the opposite wall. She ran, but it was more of a hobble, and he caught up with her easily. She tried to claw him with nails that had long ago been chewed away. "You left me, you son of a bitch!" she railed.

He grabbed her wrists, realizing only too late that his prosthetic hand had closed too tightly. "Stop it," he hissed, "or you'll break your wrist."

Hatred still raged in her eyes but she stilled. "You left me," she accused.

He flexed the correct arm muscle and the prosthesis released its grip. 

Quick as ever, she applied the flat of her hand to the side of his face. "Bastard," she spat.

"Bitch," he replied and smiled. There was a time when her actions would have been a prelude to something much more entertaining. "Can you walk?"

She shook her head, "Not far."

"Just to the parking lot?" He slipped his good arm around her waist.

She tested her weight against him for a few steps then nodded. They walked about 10 steps, "Wait. I forgot something."

He shot her an exasperated look. "Where is it?" 

She pointed to the file cart. 

He uprighted an overturned chair and lowered her gently into it. "This better be important, Marita. I'm not hauling-" He stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes found a small black box trailing rainbow ribbon cable. "Is that what I think it is?" he said breathlessly.

She nodded triumphantly.

"You _know_ what I like," he leered appreciatively, wrapped his arm around her waist again, and walked slowly toward the light.

It was dark now and she could hear the tarred pavement seams _whap, whap, whapping_ against the tires. Sometime, while it was still daylight, she'd changed from the flimsy hospital gown into sweat pants, socks and a t-shirt that smelled comfortingly of detergent and softener and Krycek. She could hear the wind whistling through an open window. When soft green dashboard lights glowed before her slightly opened eyes she realized that her head was in his lap. She shuddered.

He laid his good hand on her hip. "You okay?"

She tried to push herself up until the lights started swirling and she crumpled back into his lap again with a moan. "Where are we?" Her eyelids closed out the swirling lights.

"Pennsylvania."

She turned on her back so she could look up at his face, well, his chin. "Where are we going?"

Instead of answering his thumb made little circles on her belly and she flinched. "Sore?"

She nodded and tried to close her eyes against the memory of the "tests." Gleaming tears escaped from sunken eye sockets.

"No more tests," he reassured, brushing the tears from her wasted face.

She nodded unsteadily and allowed the noise from the tires to lull her back to sleep. The next thing she remembered was walking with Krycek's arm around her waist, being lathered and rinsed under warm water, then falling into stiff white sheets. And when the nightmares came, as they always did, she tiptoed across the narrow strip of greasy carpet and curled up against the warm, strong man in the other bed. Once daylight finally pried open her swollen eyelids she was relieved to find her head still tucked into his shoulder, his arm drawing her close as they slept.

__She burrowed deeper into his shoulder and slipped her hand under the soft cotton crew shirt he wore. Taut but supple skin glided beneath her fingertips. She luxuriated in the feel of it; she luxuriated in the feel of _this_-bodies entwined and completely relaxed. _This_ was new for them. Of all their previous encounters-- and they were all memorable-- there had been a sense of business, of _quid pro quo_ like sharks stalking each other in the shallows, coupling ferociously, then parting impassively. _Sharks_, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly at the appositeness of the comparison. She let his warmth wash over her like the gentle waves off a Caribbean cay and sleep swept over her again.

  
  


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## Chapter 2

  
  


Fox Mulder drew a deep breath in a valiant effort to ward off the soporific effects of Agent Willoughby's report. From her seat between him and AD Skinner, Dana Scully responded by sharply applying the toe of her shoe to his shin. He winced and cut his eyes at her while her glassy gaze remained fixed on some point above Agent Willoughby's head. Abruptly, she covered her face with her hand and bolted through the door. Her startled partner's eyes followed her path before noticing the crimson dots on the white paper agenda that remained where she'd been sitting. His look at Skinner betrayed his terror and the AD responded by dismissing him with a curt head-tilt toward the door. Skinner himself spent the remainder of the day unsuccessfully trying to attend to yet another meeting, another stack of reports, another call from The New Director. Waiting for a call, _the_ call, from Scully or Mulder that never came.

"The cellular customer you are calling is not available at this time. Please try your call again later." Walter Skinner slammed the receiver onto the cradle next to his alarm clock. Again. For what seemed like the 100th time. The clock glowed 5:00. "Shit," he growled and stiffly climbed out of the bed and into a hot shower.

He called both Mulder and Scully's numbers again on the way to work, bypassing his usual stop at the coffee machine to hurry to the phone so he could try again.

The desk chair in his office was occupied; he could see it from the hallway. He didn't have to watch long to identify the occupant, _singular_, of the chair. He was slumped, legs askew, head supported by the arm that was propped on the armrest.

"I tried to call," the AD began but stopped short at the terrified look he received. He slumped. "How bad?"

Mulder leaned his head back, taking in a long, ragged breath. "Terminal. Three months, maybe four."

Skinner dragged the other desk chair to Mulder's side. "Agent Mulder, I'm very sorry. I . . ." He found no words.

"When God wants to punish you he answers your prayers." He smiled wanly, through red-rimmed eyes. "Cancer isn't the only thing growing inside her."

He gazed quizzically at the younger agent for a long moment until understanding clouded his already gloomy expression. He cast down his eyes. "How far along is she?"

Mulder licked his lips. "Nine weeks."

"What can I do?" 

The younger man opened and closed his mouth several times as if words were dammed up inside and he just couldn't say them.

"Where is she?"

"GWU," he answered flatly.

Skinner stepped into the anteroom before summoning his agent, "Let's go."

They had only gone a block down Ninth Street before Mulder sat up and pointed to a building, a bank, half a block ahead on the right. "Stop, there, at the bank," he croaked, "please."

Skinner complied wordlessly, waiting until the younger man had returned, nearly staggering, from the building.

"Thanks." He rubbed his thumb over the black velvet box in his right hand before opening it with a sigh. "I promised myself while she was gone before that when she returned I'd put this," his index finger caressed a tiny diamond circlet, "on her hand and never let her go." He wiped his cheek with the back of a hand. "But I never got around to it. I let _things_ get in the way. And now . . ." He turned his face to the passenger window.

The older man swallowed hard but maintained silence as the passing brownstones became a gray concrete parking garage where he finally found a space.

Again he made that sickening walk down a hospital corridor knowing Dana Scully lay dying. Mulder ducked into the restroom as they passed. But he continued onward, pausing to steel himself for the grim sight he knew he'd find-Scully in a darkened hospital room, pale, wan. He finally pushed against the door and reeled at the bright sunlight that met him.

"Good morning, sir," Scully greeted cheerfully, her hair a coppery halo. Her luminous grin was a marked contrast to Maggie Scully's thin-lipped smile.

"Good morning," he choked, unable to cleanse the shock from his voice. He walked rapidly to the bedside, extending a hand to Scully's mother. "You look great."

Dana Scully smiled widely, more widely than he'd ever seen her. "I _feel_ great," she patted the hand he'd rested on the sheets with the hand that was tethered by clear tubes connected to a large bag of clear liquid. "Did Mulder tell you?"

Margaret Scully stifled a sob, which her daughter ignored.

"Yes, he did," the AD responded unsteadily. "I don't know what to say."

"Congratulations will do nicely," she replied almost shyly.

Maggie Scully snuffled and bolted, passing Mulder in the doorway.

His eyes were still reddened but his expression had brightened considerably. He manned the other side of the bed, planting a quick kiss on his partner's forehead.

"Congratulations on your good news," the older man said with as much warmth as he could muster.

"Thank you," she beamed.

"Well," he said after an uncomfortable silence, "I'd better be getting to work. You both take whatever time you need; we'll work it out." He scurried into the hall, nearly bowling over Scully's mother. He clasped both arms, steadying her. "How are you, Maggie?"

She answered with a wan smile.

"Me, too."

  
  


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## Chapter 3

  
  


She remembered little of the second day-just the whine of the tires and the _whump-kawhump_ of the tarred seams in the pavement. Somewhere on the Ohio Turnpike it had begun to snow-flakes had blown in with the cold, damp wind when Alex had stopped along the side of the road.

"What's wrong?" she remembered murmuring when he'd pulled back onto the highway.

"The snow was beginning to drift; I had to lock the hubs for the 4-wheel drive."

She mumbled something that indicated complete understanding, or something like that, and then an odd slushy, crunchy whine provided accompaniment for their much slower pace. She could feel the wind buffeting the vehicle from the passenger side.

"Where are we?" She pulled a lever and the seat back uprighted itself.

"Halfway between Cleveland and Toledo." The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the onslaught of tiny, but wet, snowflakes.

The rear of the car began drifted sideways. "We need to get off the road," Marita gasped.

"No shit." He cut the wheel into the drift and the car straightened out. "I've seen nothing but NO VACANCY signs for the last 10 miles."

Onward they crept, slush slurping under the wheels. Darkness fell with terrifying rapidity and the snowflakes swirled a blinding dervish in the headlights. Fear welled in his throat but he stowed it away in his emotional bilge hold. He heard a small gasp from her then felt a hand rest ever-so-lightly on his thigh. For a moment he yielded to its comfort before he relegated that emotion to same place he'd stowed the fear.

She squinted, "Is that a sign? About 50 yards up the road?"

He searched the roadside, "Yeah. Let's just hope there's an empty room."

"At this point I'd settle for a greasy sofa in a warm lobby."

The slurping under the tires gave way to an eery silence as they plowed through undisturbed snow drifts.

"Is it bad?" she asked.

A tire spun, as if on cue. "We can't go much farther," he warned. The hand on his thigh twitched. He was so startled he almost missed the pair of round, red reflectors that indicated a driveway. He slid the Bronco into a parking place in front of a clapboard building marked "Office." "Wait here," he instructed, reaching for the key in the ignition. He paused, "Don't go anywhere," he ordered and waded through the calf-deep drifts to the building.

The curtain sheltering the barred window of the wooden door parted the instant his foot touched the porch. "We're closed for the season!" a voice boomed through the barely opened wooden door.

"I need a room." He stuffed his good hand in his jeans pocket. "The weather's too bad to go on."

"Closed for the season!" the disembodied voice barked again.

Krycek tamped down the anger rising in his throat, spying Marita in his periphery. "Look, I'll pay you double your peak-time rate. My lady's just gotten out of the hospital and I need to find a place for her to rest." 

Only an eye peeked around the door but Krycek stifled a wily smile at the effect of his near-truth. Then two eyes appeared, framed by a weather-beaten round face, held up by a wiry, string-bean frame. "Fool thing-taking a sick woman out in weather like this," the scarecrow chastised.

"We were trying to make it home to her folks in Idaho." 

The dark eyes squinted at the Bronco and its sickly occupant. Then the bony hand disappeared inside the door and reappeared with a key dangling from it. "Cabin 7."

It was difficult for Krycek, keeping a straight face when he knew he'd won. He jingled the key ring triumphantly and jumped back into the waiting SUV. The snow sploshed rather than crunched beneath the tires for the 30-yard trek to the largest of the clapboard cabins.

"Can you walk on your own?" he asked as the vehicle slid to a halt.

She shook her head feebly and he flung open the door, pulling her, not so gently, to the edge of the seat. She winced.

"Sorry," he said apologetically. 

She responded with a weak smile, swinging her legs into the growing drift. Her knees buckled.

"[Damn]," his command of the coarser elements of his native language had not diminished with disuse.

"[I'm sorry,]" she replied, her elegant White Russian accent in sharp contrast to the guttural Siberian inflection he used. She shifted her arm from his waist and hooked her hand over his shoulder, taking her weight off the straining prosthesis. Her sock-covered toes banged against the risers of the steps that were too sodden to creak. Then the world turned soft and black and the next thing she remembered was lying on something soft but scratchy. A bed, a mattress, a bare mattress, the smell of musk and machine oil, warm breath ruffling her hair and, eyes the color of warm sapphires gazing into her own. And then, in an instant, the eyes turned icy-blue-the color of the Bering Sea. 

"[You're back,]" the voice was as cold as the eyes. The bed creaked as he stood.

"[Where are we?]"

He peeked through threadbare curtains. "[A fishing camp. That's Lake Erie you hear lapping at our back door.]"

A board creaked outside the door and, so fast it was a blur, a pistol appeared in Krycek's hand, hammer already drawn back.

"Manager," a voice preceded a knock.

"It's open," Krycek called cautiously, training his weapon at the center of the opening.

The windswung door revealed two figures, "The old woman thought you'd sleep better on fresh sheets rather than that bare mattress."

"That's very kind of you," Krycek's weapon was concealed as quickly as it had appeared, so quickly that Marita wondered for a moment if she had seen it at all.

"Move inside so we can close the door, old man," a voice scratched from behind the lollipop figured-man. She set a pot on the small stove in the kitchenette and turned on the burner. "The stores are all closed so we brought some soup and fresh milk." She folded her hands before her, apple-cheeked and snowy-haired.

"Thank you," Marita said weakly. "I'll get those sheets on the bed." She swung her legs to the floor, but swayed too much to stand.

"No, you won't," the woman replied as Krycek caught his "lady." "A woman just out of the hospital deserves to be waited on hand and foot," she stared pointedly at Krycek before fluffing the snowy sheets on the mattress.

"Is she okay?" the old man looked askance. "Do I need to get the doctor over here?"

"No," the couple replied in unison.

"We, uh," Krycek appeared reticent as he cast about for a cover story, "we lost our baby recently." He grasped Marita's hand sympathetically while she reacted sorrowfully to his confession. "We just need to get her home to her folks. Everything will be okay once we get her home," he said earnestly.

"Until then, she needs her rest," the old woman patted the blanket smooth, then stood up. "Let's go, old man."

"Wait," Alex offered his good hand to the woman. "Thank you, Mrs.-"

"Jackson. Martha Jackson. The old man is my husband, Tom, Mr.--"

He held out his hand to the old man, "Arnold, Kevin Arnold, and this is my wife, Winnie."

Snowflakes managed to blow in despite the Jackson's hasty exit.

"Was that the best cover story you could come up with?" She glanced downward at her ventricose abdomen, paling at the irony of the lie.

He shrugged, "I do better when I've had a chance to plan. I wasn't exactly expecting to include a wife in the scenario." He stirred and sniffed the pot. "Hungry?"

"No," she groaned and tried, unsuccessfully, to walk from the chair to the bed.

Krycek caught her just before she fell. "Besides," he grumbled, "if you don't eat, you won't get your strength back and I'll waste all my energy hauling you around."

"I thought you liked hauling me around," she murmured. "Bastard." Her eyes fell shut.

He stroked his thumb along the gaunt planes of her cheek and whispered,"Sweet dreams, bitch."

  
  


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## Chapter 4

  
  


Typhoon Bill Scully rolled down the hospital hall pausing at waiting room doors like a storm seeking landfall. Casting his eyes about for the object of his fury, he spied a lone figure, its back to the door, slumped on the steps outside the entrance doors. He barreled through the whooshing doors, pausing silently, rage building to a tempest.

"Hello, Bill," the figure remained still, moving only to drag on the cigarette burning in a trembling hand.

"You sorry, son-of-a-bitch."

"Yeah, that's me, although I'd really appreciate it if you left my mother out of this." He sucked on the cigarette again. "Have you seen her? She's glowing, Bill, bright as the morning sun. Chattering on about names and cradles and nurseries. It's almost enough to make you forget she's dying," he said flatly, drawing a final taste, then tossing the butt into the street where the wisp of smoke withered and died. 

Then a hand closed about his arm and typhoon Bill landed, jerking him up and pinning him back against a square concrete column. "It's your fault," Scully's brother accused, further words choked by the face before him.

The eyes were haunted, lifeless, spiderwebs of red netting the hazel irises. The lids were puffy and scarlet against the black, sunken sockets surrounding them. The skin was ashy gray, lips almost blue, parting to beg, "Do it, Bill. Beat me senseless for everything I've ever done to your sister. Maybe then I can forget, even for an instant, that all of this is my fault." Tears coursed their familiar tracks. "Do it." He swallowed hard. "Please."

Bill Scully stared into the haunted eyes, recognizing in them every husband's worst fear.

"Agent Mulder, are you alright?" a rough voice called from the sidewalk.

Mulder found his feet again and straightened slightly. "Yes, sir." He dragged the backs of his hands across his cheeks. Darting a glance at his boss, he pushed past his nemesis and the hospital doors whooshed behind him. Bill Scully turned to follow.

"A moment, Commander Scully?"

Bill Scully stopped, head hanging. Walter Skinner stepped around to face him.

"I suppose your mother's given you her usual complete report?"

Bill nodded.

"Then you know your sister will need all the strength she can garner-from her friends, from her family, but mostly from Mulder."

Bill Scully snorted, "It's his fault she's going through with the pregnancy. His vanity takes precedence over her health."

Walter Skinner's fists itched to be applied to the side of Bill Scully's hard head. But he shook his head instead. "He asked, begged, her to terminate."

"I'll bet he did,"Scully accused.

"You stupid squid. Either way she dies. At least, with the child, some part of her lives on."

"At the cost of her own life," Scully spat. "Without the baby she could take a more aggressive course of treatment, extend her time, lead a longer life-" He ran out of steam.

"She knows she is dying, Commander. She knows the possibilities and the liabilities and the consequences of her choices." Skinner's tongue darted across his parched lips. "Her dying wish is this child, and I will do everything in my power to grant it to her."

Bill Scully swayed, eyes unfocused, voice quavering, "I don't want her to die."

"None of us do," Skinner's own voice wavered, "but this is her heart's desire and we respect her, love her too much to take it away from her."

"Bill?" Maggie Scully wrapped her arms around her son. "Fox said you were here," she said tearfully.

Bill Scully gathered his mother in his arms, comforting as he was comforted.

Walter Skinner gave them their privacy, his boot steps echoing down the hall, abruptly saddened by the realization that Dana Scully's child would never know the comfort of a mother's touch. "Damn," he breathed, unsuccessful at blinking away the tears.

  
  


### Chapter 5

  
  


"You would tell me if we were lost, wouldn't you, Alex?" Snow crunched against the floorboards. "You wouldn't just drive around until we ran out of gas and froze to death, would you?"

"We're not lost," he said sharply. "It's just hard to get your bearings in a snow storm like this."

She sat up. "This is exactly why they put women on the space shuttle, Krycek."

"What, so they can stop and ask for directions?" He laughed.

"Give me your GPS locator."

"I don't have one." Her eyebrows shot up. "Any signal we bounce off a satellite is just like a homing beacon. They'd be on us in minutes."

"Oh," she said, embarrassed to have forgotten. "Then what are we looking for?"

He twisted his head around. "A block house, 10 by 10 by 10."

"Is it painted?"

"White."

She laughed. "You expect to see a white concrete block house in the middle of a snowstorm?"

He nodded and slowed. "I think we're close," he said, squinting through the windshield.

A giant white figure loomed beside them, banging on the driver's window and making a horrible noise. Marita had already squealed before she realized the "abominable snowman" had been shouting Krycek's name.

"Are you lost?" "It" shouted through the lowered window.

Alex reddened. "NO, I just can't see the blockhouse."

The "snowman" laughed and pointed to a snowdrift which looked square upon closer inspection. He thumbed a remote control and the low ridge before them slowly collapsed revealing a long, low concrete bunker. Krycek goosed the accelerator and, in an instant, they were inside the bunker, heavy blast doors creaking shut behind them. The "snowman" doffed his arctic hood and goggles revealing a tanned face and dark eyes.

"We expected you 2 days ago. Stasi and your father were getting anxious." He leered mildly at Marita. "I see we needn't have worried."

"Stow it, Killian," Alex replied, walking around to the passenger side, leading her to the only thing that mattered to her right then--a warm, soft bed and the arms of a warm, strong man.

  
  


***

  
  


Fragments of guttural whispers drifted through the partially-opened metal door and reverberated off the concrete walls. 

"[Who is she, Alexei?]" uttered a feminine voice.

"[A business associate.]" 

Marita cringed at the coldness in his voice.

"[Business, brother?"] the other woman snorted. "[What sort of business associate do you install in your own bed when there are plenty others available?]"

"[A none-of-your-business associate, Anastasia.]"

A shadow crossed the sliver of light intruding through the partially-opened door. "[There are children here, Alexei. You shouldn't have brought your trollop.]"

"[That's not what she is,]" he protested. "[She's the one who delivered the information storage unit to us. Now that the Grays have the merchandise, the day is not far off. We have no time to waste discussing who's in my bed.]"

Icy silence ensued. The voice, when it spoke again, was soft, loving, pleading. "[You are a gifted scientist, Alexei. Why do you persist in wasting yourself on these dark pursuits?]"

"[It's what I was bred for, Stasi.]"

"[Perhaps. But it is not how you were raised. This woman: does she know you, Alexei? Does she know the boy whom I taught to swim in the glacier-fed rivers so cold that after a minute in the water your lips matched your eyes?]"

"_Nyet._"

"[Pity. Alex Krycek may have the skills to vanquish his enemies, but Alexandre Krycek has a talent, a gift that can help save us all. Don't waste it, Alexandreovitch.]"

"[There's nothing to waste, Anastasia. I am the deathsman, born to destroy.]"

Marita's breath caught at the bitter resignation in his voice.

"_Nyet, Alexei_," his sister disagreed. "[You are your father's son, born to help us save them all.]"

The metallic ring of a closing door echoed through the portal. Her eyes finally adjusted to the semi-darkness, she studied her habitation. It was windowless, devoid of any architectural ornamentation. From high in the corner next to the door, a small icon blessed the room, a tattered travel bag sagging beneath it. A worn chair filled the next corner, sharing an Art Deco torchere with the bed in which she lay. Clothes hung from hooks flanking a small chest in the other corner and in the fourth corner, leaning against the block wall, was a well-worn guitar. She flung back the tapestry-covered eiderdown and crept to the corner.

The fingerboard was ebony, highly polished by the repeated fingerings. The shellac on the back of the neck and below the sound hole had long since been worn away and the wood beneath was burnished from use. A capo was clamped just below the machine tuners and a tortoiseshell pick was woven into the slender steel strings. Kneeling silently on a worn carpet thrown across the narrow area of concrete she drew her fingers across the dusty strings, tinny notes wafting through the air with the disturbed motes. She reached up to grasp the neck, but fingers tightened around her wrist and she felt herself being wrested back onto the bed.

"Feeling better?" Icy blue eyes burned at her from a handswidth.

She struggled wildly to free herself from the cage of leather-clad arms and denim-sheathed legs that pressed her into the bed. "Not well enough for _that_," she hissed, trying to pull her knees to her chest.

"Don't worry," he chuffed. "Sex is the last thing we have time for." He rolled off her, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "I just hope that storage unit you saved will have enough information for us to develop the vaccine in time. Now that the grays have the hybrid, the day can't be far off."

"You have more time than you think," she draped herself over his back as seductively as she had to strength to manage. She pressed her lips just below his ear, her tongue just brushing his neck.

"Why?" he rasped, leaning into her hungrily.

"Because," she peeled the leather jacked and dumped it on the floor. "Because," she repeated as she pulled him back onto the eider and straddled him.

"Because," he whispered, her face hovering above his.

She shook her head and sat up, her weight settling on his hips with a smoky electricity. She busied her hands with his shirt buttons, but he stilled them.

"A business associate expects to be paid . . ."

"For what?" he grinned and busied his hand with her shirt buttons.

His prosthetic hand felt strangely cool against her hip. "I know who has Cassandra," her Cheshire-cat grin glowed in the half-light. She rocked back against him.

"Who?" he groaned, sighing hotly.

"Payment in advance," she admonished then exacted her fee with great relish.

"Who?" he croaked afterward, sated, spent.

She teased him with the knee that had been draped across his hips, dug her fingers lightly into his chest, carefully avoiding the leather harness at his left shoulder. "The Alien Resistance," she whispered. "Worth the price?"

Cat-quick he pinned her beneath him with a sly grin. "Worth a bonus."

  
  


### Chapter 6

  
  


It just made the legalities of paternity clearer: a husband was assumed to be the father of any child born to his wife. That - and the desire to mollify Maggie Scully's conscience - had led them to the altar in a quiet Episcopal ceremony held beneath the Moon Window at the National Cathedral. Mulder had declined to convert so Father McCue had declined to officiate. But they'd married despite him, with Mrs. Scully and AD Skinner as their only witnesses. The bride had worn a work-suit, one of her few pale ones, the growing bulge in her belly barely hidden by her partially unbuttoned weskit. They'd "honeymooned" in the hospital, toasting each other with fruit juice instead of champagne as the cancer-fighting chemicals dripped into her. Between the morning sickness and the chemical-induced nausea, the juice became her main source of sustenance - so much so that after four weeks she was returning to work nearly ten pounds lighter. The elevator car lurched, tossing her forward.

Mulder's hand snaked out, wrapping around her and pulling her close. "Okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, leaning against him despite the stares of the other passengers. The new gold band gleamed as he smoothed her loose-fitting blouse over her belly. She covered his hand with hers, squeezing it comfortingly before he returned it to its proper place at the small of her narrowing back. The elevator halted gently, the doors whispered open and he guided her into the familiar hall. It was empty when they began but had filled considerably by the time they reached AD Skinner's door.

They'd ducked inside, seeking refuge from the prying eyes. The network administrator later reported that email volume had tripled in the subsequent quarter-hour. Grasping her hand, the AD was shocked at the frailty of the once-firm grip though the eyes burned more brightly than ever. Her skin was papery, stretched loosely over a cadaverous frame. But, somehow, she glowed a golden halo that centered around the miraculous thirteen-week bulge which she unconsciously stroked, diamond circlet glittering in the morning sun.

"Sir," she greeted with a smile that Skinner couldn't help but return.

"Welcome back, Agent Scully."

"It's good to be back, sir," she smiled warmly.

  
  


***

  
  


It was all very simple really-a very human equation scrawled on the front of his brain: 1+1=3. 

"_[Shit]_," he hissed and extracted himself from the extremely intimate position in which he was engaged.

"[What, Krycek?]" his partner demanded breathlessly, faced flushed.

He fastened, buckled, zipped. "[You know _what_, Marita,]" he flung her shirt, his shirt, actually, at her. "[Get dressed. We have work to do.]" The metal door rang as it slammed behind him. He stumbled more than walked, his ardor not completely cooled yet.

"[_Now?]_" she dressed as she followed him down the dank concrete stairwell. "[What is wrong with you?]"

He slowed his pace slightly. "[Just when were you going to tell me, Marita? Or were you just gonna wait and let me figure it out on my own?]"

"[I don't know what in the hell you're talking about!]" She grabbed his good arm and spun him around. "[Tell you about what?]"

Voices echoed further down the concrete hallway and he pulled her into an empty wardroom. He spread his hand across her engorged belly.

"[Just tell me one thing, Marita. Is it my baby or is it some alien thing they implanted in you?]"

"[What?]" she stammered. "[I don't know,]" she clawed at her belly, "[oh God, oh, Alex, please,]" blood trickled from the deep scratches, "[I've got to know, please, Alex, I've got to find out.]"

He captured her hands in his, her strength surprising. "[We'll find out,]" he soothed. With his shoulder he leaned against the intercom. "[Wardroom A2, I need help,]" he barked. She struggled wildly, ignoring his calm voice repeating, "[Relax, Marita, we're gonna find out.]"

By the time help arrived in the form of his brother-in-law, Killian, and his oldest son, she had fallen into near-catatonia. They carried her deep into the silo to the examining room of Anastasia Krycek. She remained still as long as he, Alex, was touching her but the loss of his touch unleashed her frenzy again. He pulled over a stool and sat above her head, laying his head on the examining table next to hers, still speaking soothingly. She flinched strongly at the invasive portions of the examination, memories of the "tests" doing a terrible water-dance in her eyes.

"[Everything looks normal,]" Anastasia Krycek patted her patient on the arm, gliding an instrument over her belly while staring at a small screen. "[The baby is approximately twenty weeks by size. Everything's right where it should be. Do you want to see?]"

She shook her head but his curiosity won out, eyes widening with wonder at the miracle before him.

"[Here's the backbone,]" Stasi pointed. "[And the arms, the legs, the eyes, the mouth. Look, it's moving!]"

Marita's head rolled to face the screen and her face lit up. "[How can we be sure everything's normal?]" she asked.

"[I could do an amniocentesis; we have everything here to do the genetic analysis.]"

"[Do it,]" Alex said quietly, then ran his finger along the CRT screen while whispering in Marita's ear.

"[You'll feel some pressure,]" Stasi warned and a tear rolled down the patient's face, which her companion wiped away with word and deed. "[Just a bit more,]" clear yellowish fluid filled the giant hypodermic, "[and we're done.]" She stretched a small bandage over the needle-wound. "[You may feel some light cramping tonight. Call for me if it becomes strong or you bleed any at all.]"

He nodded and walked slowly in silence beside her, shuddering at the closeness of the elevator car that lifted them six stories' height to the Spartan quarters they shared in the ground-level concrete bunker. He guided her around the comfortable chairs she'd managed to scrounge in the four weeks since their arrival from the others living below to augment the office-style furniture left behind by the military when the silo was abandoned. Pushing open the heavy metal door between the living room and their bedroom, she stiffened, hands guarding her belly as she fell toward the door jamb. She felt herself being lifted, nearly floating the eight-odd feet before being settled on the soft bed. A large hand covered hers, the warmth soothing to the cramping muscles below.

"[Better?]" he asked after a moment, concern darkening his eyes to sapphire-blue.

She nodded weakly, burrowing deeper into the large form curled around her.

"[Rest,]" he commanded and she obeyed without her usual dissent, drifting off to sleep to the lullaby of their heartbeats.

"[No!]" she bolted upright in the bed, upsetting the stack of papers on his lap.

"[Hey,]" he soothed. "[You're safe; it was just a nightmare.]"

She scanned the room with feral intensity before coiling again into the sheets, eider pulled up around her nose. According to the clock she'd been asleep several hours.

He brushed a lock of flaxen hair from her eyes before returning to his reading.

She blinked rapidly until her eyes adjusted to the lamplight. "[How's it going?]"

"[It's not.]" He continued studying the paper. "[The vaccine is only fifteen percent effective on Rh-positive samples.]"

She scooted higher in the bed and peered over his left shoulder at his regular, even scrawl. "[And the negative samples?]" Her belly dislodged his senseless prosthesis.

He stiffened at her touch, quickly adjusting the arm so that it no longer touched her. "[Still holding at ninety-eight percent.]"

She lay her head on his shoulder, long since accustomed to the leather harness that secured the replacement limb. "[Well, as long as the Grays don't have the hybrid you have time . . .]"

He shook his head, eyes remaining focused on the paper. "[Moses thinks the Alien Resistance will begin their own attack soon using the virus to destroy the strongest then enslaving us on their own behalf.]"

"[How does he know?]"

"[He's been on the money so far.]" He turned another page and scribbled in a margin. "[We can't afford not to believe him.]"

He made a show of concentrating on his work, but she caught him casting furtive glances at her. Or rather, at her belly.

She scooted until her breath warmed his ear. "[The answer is yes, Krycek.]"

"[Marita, I, uh . . .]"

She swallowed hard. "[There hasn't been anyone else, Alex. Not since the freighter or long before it, for that matter.]"

He swallowed hard. He mumbled, "[I'm not supposed to be able to . . .]"

She swung her feet to the floor, unsteadily navigating the short distance to the lavatory. Silhouetted in the doorway, she said caustically, ["Then you better start looking for a star in the east.]" The slamming door cut off his reply.

He chunked his papers where she had lain. "[Bitch.]"

"[Bastard,]" she called from the lavatory.

"[Damn.]" He pulled his knees to his chest and propped his head on the arm propped on his knee. He ground the heel of his palm into his eyes, but failed to staunch the tears. "[Damn.]"

  
  


* * *

  
  


"Damn," Fox Mulder whispered to himself as another dry heave washed over him. As the spasm calmed he twisted the shower knobs, then stepped under the steaming stream. Hot tears laved his cheeks as he lathered away the evidence of his shame, the evidence of his selfishness, the evidence of his ardor. She had so little strength, so little time, and he'd wasted both satisfying his base passion. What kind of man was he? He turned the water hotter, tearfully offering the scalding pain as penance.

"Don't cry," a soft voice called to him. A soft hand stroked his cheek and, in a moment, the water cooled. "It's okay." She stood on tiptoe to cradle his face in her hands, the child in her growing tummy pressing below his bellybutton. Her hands, her entire body, for that matter, had shriveled, bones showing through papery skin, with the glorious exception of her belly - and that was his fault, as well.

He shook his head. "I shouldn't have . . ."

"I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't."

"You need your sleep," he protested.

She shook her head, strings of wet hair dancing on either side. "I have eternity to sleep. I'd rather spend the time I have left giving you memories to keep you warm on the coldest winter nights." Sliding her arms around his waist, she rested her forehead against his chest, enjoying the memory of their passion, storing it away for her cold winter to come, filed under the only category that mattered anymore: Mulder.

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Chapter 7

  
  


A false spring warmed the Maryland countryside and Maggie Scully had taken advantage of the break in the weather to plan a little outdoor celebration. She smoothed the yellow linen napkins folded beneath her best silver. She'd always liked Dana in yellow. She'd bought her baby girl maternity clothes in the colors of the rainbow, rebelling against her daughter's customary black attire that looked so funereal-

A sob caught in her throat, tears spilling onto her cheeks. She vainly searched her pockets for a tissue, then reached for a napkin, stopping when a white handkerchief floated into view. She plucked the linen from the strong paw that offered it, turned and buried her face in the broad chest of its owner. Muscular arms folded around her, lending her strength in her moment of helplessness.

"I promised myself I wouldn't do this," she sniffled, lifting her eyes to meet his.

"So did I," Walter Skinner's normally rough voice softened.

"Were you able to keep your promise?"

"Why do you think I had the handkerchief?" he grinned.

"Bill hated it when I cried. He said it was a sign of weakness and maybe he was right." She pulled shyly away, adjusting the stemware while daubing at her face. "I don't think I have the strength to face this."

"I know you do." He allowed her some distance. "With the possible exception of your daughter, you're the strongest _person_ I know."

She smiled ruefully before folding the sodden square and slipping it into her pocket. "Four months to go."

"She'll make it."

"Mom?" Scully staggered to the nearest lawn chaise and flopped more than sat, panting from the walk from her mother's house. Despite her breathlessness, a sunny smile split her haggard face which she lifted to the sunshine. "Mm, what a beautiful day." Her hands stroked her now-large belly.

"You okay?" Mulder kneeled beside her and asked ever-so-quietly.

"Mm-hm," she hummed. "I could stay like this forever."

"So could I," Mulder admitted. "So could I."

  
  


***

  
  


It was the model of incongruity-the sight of man-of-action Alex Krycek in a long, white coat, perched on a high stool, elbow on tabletop supporting chin, poring over a stack of the latest lab results.

"[Damn.]"

The glass observation window of the "clean" laboratory prevented hearing his expletive, but she'd watched his lips form that particular word enough that she knew it by heart. She rapped on the glass and his face jerked up, eyes dark, round and lidless like a mole emerging from his tunnel. She beckoned him through the glass but he shook his head. She beckoned more urgently and he responded in kind. 

Finally she stabbed the intercom switch. "[Take a break, Alex. You've been at it for 48 hours straight.]"

"[I'm okay.]" With his false left hand he swirled a spoon in the tarnished silver coffee-glass. "[See?]" His hand twitched and the glass toppled, dregs of tepid coffee spreading across the tabletop. He muttered sharply and she smiled, recognizing on his lips the formation of the word that was not only his favorite expression of frustration but was, in her experience, his favorite recreational activity-the proof of which was now playing soccer with her internal organs.

"[Oh, I see.]"

He smiled sheepishly and plodded to the door, pausing to hang his white lab coat on the nearby rack. "[Just for a little while,]" he admonished, leaning wearily against the back wall of the elevator car as it whooshed upward seven stories' height to the cavernous bunker that capped the abandoned missile silo into which a community had settled. 

The doors swished open and he inhaled deeply, drawing in fresher air to replace the stale, recycled atmosphere found in the air-tight spaces below them. His footsteps echoing heavily, she followed him to their compartments, finding him in their bedroom struggling with the buttons on his shirt. Her belly brushed his left arm and he drew a sharp breath. She finished the buttons, peeled off the shirt, then the undershirt. He reddened at the revelation of the harness that secured the replacement appendage but she did not.

"[How long has it been hurting?]" She nimbly released the buckles.

"[A day or so.]" He grabbed the false arm with his right hand and shrugged out of the harness, tossing the prosthetic onto the bed. "[What time is it?]"

"[Nearly dawn.]" She gently examined the stubby arm. "[You have a pressure sore. You know you're not supposed to wear your prosthesis for that long at a time.]" 

She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with salve and bandages, finding an empty room, an open door and the sound of footsteps on the stairway that led to the surface. She grabbed two coats and a blanket and followed, finding him on the crest of the rolling ridge nearby, shirtless, face illuminated by the first rays of the morning sun. Winter's snows had surrendered to spring's wet greening and the breeze warmed her face like a lover's breath.

"[Moses says we don't have much time.]"

She hung the leather coat over his shoulders. "[Are the vaccines ready?]" She spread the blanket on the ground on the sunward side of a boulder.

He shook his head. "[Just the one.]" He sat on the blanket, leaning against the boulder, pulled his knees akimbo and propped his head on one with a trembling hand. "[Half the world will die at the end of the first incubation period and there's nothing we can do about it.]"

"[But the other half will live.]" She settled between his legs, leaning back into his chest.

"[Maybe. We'll have to continue the research after we lock down the silo.]" He rested his chin on her pale head. He burrowed his hand under her shirt, fingers dancing in tiny circles on the taut, shiny skin of her belly. "[What day is it?]"

"[Sunday. Your father will be celebrating the Eucharist soon. He invited me _personally_ last night,]" she said with a little bitterness.

"[Me, too,]" Alex chuckled. "[Do you know how he referred to you?]"

She felt his hand rummaging through his pocket -- or at least she thought that was his hand in his pocket. "[I shudder to think . . .]"

"[He, um,]" Krycek stammered.

Marita tensed; she'd never heard him stammer.

"[He called you my wife.]"

Silence hung between them.

"[It made me think,]" he said hurriedly, "[that he knows more about us than we do.]"

"[Does he?]"

Slowly he brought up his closed fist, finally resting it lightly on her tummy. He opened it, spilling the contents.

"[What are these?]" she asked slowly.

"[They're nested O-rings from the rocket's fuel lines. They're made from aerospace-grade titanium and carry the same serial number.]" He slipped one of them on his right hand, third finger. The other he offered to her. "[I have nothing to offer you but this. My past is best forgotten. My present is a fool's quest. I have no future but what grows in your belly, what we made in there. I want my child,]" he smiled shyly, "[to know I accepted that future, that I considered him or her the only thing I ever did worth being remembered for.]"

"[I thought you were intent on saving the future.]"

He laid his right hand, the metal ring a cool contrast to its wearer's warmth, on her belly. "[I've changed. I'm intent on saving _my_ future. _Our_ future.]"

She slipped the matching band on her own hand and laid it on top of his. "[You know, Krycek, this is the only thing I've ever done that hasn't gone to hell.]"

"[Fate,]" he said resignedly.

"[Destiny,]" she corrected with a shy smile.

"[Bitch,]" he said tenderly.

"[Bastard,]" she replied hungrily.

And they claimed each other with a tender ferocity, no longer straining against the shackle of their common passion, but entering into an ancient yoke, bound about the heart. Finally they lay, together, sated, in the ebbing embers of their fervor. 

"[You're not coming with us, are you?]" She buried her face in his left shoulder while his hand danced warmly over her roundness, fingers finally entwining with hers just whispers away from their baby's heart.

"[He's kicking a lot today, isn't he? Maybe he'll be a soccer player when he grows up.]"

"[Answer me, Alex.]"

"[You know I can't live,]" he swallowed hard, "[_down there_.]"

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Chapter 8

  
  


In times past he would have found the swim refreshing, invigorating, but now Mulder felt only the overwhelming fatigue of heartache. Lap after lap he stroked the water, each circuit both penance and a prayer. It was a petition offered to a God whom he doubted but was in no position to disbelieve. And so he swam on, pushing off from the side of the pool at every turn, seeking nirvana in his exhaustion or, failing that, oblivion. His journey was delayed by the appearance of a dark angel, looming at the opposite end of the pool, his wings taking the form of a dark raincoat, his halo a bald pate. As his strokes pulled him closer he considered the reason for the angel's appearance. It could only mean one thing: it was The End. It had come two months too soon. Salty tears mingled with the slick chlorinated water. Be it one or both, someone he loved would die today-taking his heart with them. Vacantly he accepted the hand that lifted him from the water, dressed silently, then turned to the last page of his life.

  
  


***

  
  


It had begun as a dull ache just above the stretched-out waistband of the borrowed sweat pants that had become her uniform. She slid her hands beneath the borrowed shirt, pressing her fingers into the overtaxed muscles just above her spine. It made her distended belly jut out even further, if that were possible, putting even more tension on the complaining muscles. She rubbed harder, wincing at the discomfort of stretching her already-taut belly muscles to their limit.

Her partner watched this ungainly ballet with engaged bemusement. Had she not been so uncomfortable it would have been funny. She was enormous; he could not have conceived - no pun intended, he smiled to himself - that she could be this big. Of course, he could not conceive that she would have conceived in the first place since, supposedly, he'd been genetically engineered to prevent such things. But Mother Nature had prevailed and he stood on the brink of parenthood with a woman for whom he could not form a relational description. She was not his "wife" as his father so euphemistically referred to her. That they were in the situation proved she was more than a business associate, despite his insistence. She was -

"Krycek," she called sharply.

His, he thought before wordlessly leading her to the military-surplus sofa, sitting sideways on it, and settling her back into the crook between his legs. She rested her head against his chest and he slid his hands around her pendulous belly, taking some of the weight from her tortured muscles. Gently he kneaded her, relishing the little jabs as tiny elbows and feet protested the additional confinement.

"[Better now?]" He glanced at the clock on the wall as she nodded. "[How long have you been hurting?]"

"[A few hours,]" she murmured. "[It's happening, isn't it?]" Her voice trembled.

"[Probably.]" He kissed the top of her head and spread his fingers so they covered her belly. 

Her fingers crept up to interlace with his where they stayed for a long while- the gentle soughs of their breathing interrupted only by the cooking of another batch of replicated DNA-vaccine.

She shifted, then swung her feet to the floor, perched on the edge of the worn seat cushion. "[Aren't you afraid?]"

"[Of what?]" He returned to his perch at his work table.

She followed him. "[Of everything! What if the amnio was invalid and there's something wrong with it?]"

"[Him,]" the prospective father corrected. "[I told you that the amnio results were just as we expected.]" With surprising gentleness, his mechanical hand tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiled shyly and stepped into the V made by his legs propped on the stool-rungs. "[What if we screw him up? We're not Ozzie and Harriet . . .]"

He pulled her belly-close.

"[Or even Gomez and Morticia.]" She rested her forehead on his chest, arms circling his waist.

"[More like Boris and Natasha.]" He nuzzled her hair, hands stroking her back. Her back muscles tensed, then her belly muscles hardened.

"[How long has it been since the last one?]" she gasped.

"[Five minutes.]" He turned her sideways, stroking both her back and her belly as the muscular bands hardened. Her knees buckled and he joined her crouch, whispering hopefully soothing noises in her ear. She gasped again and leaned into him, her lungs no longer pumping. "[Breathe,]" he reminded. "[Makes the pain easier.]"

"[Shut up, bastard,]" she growled. "[How would you know?]"

"[I know,]" he whispered and deathly-cool fingers stroked her face.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. "[I'm sorry, I'm such a bitch and now you're stuck with me and a baby and . . .]"

He chuckled, planting a small kiss on her glistening forehead. "[That's okay. When Stasi goes into labor we never know whether to call a midwife or an exorcist.]"

Her features softened as her muscles relaxed. "[It's really stupid.]" Tears coursed down her cheeks again.

"[What's stupid?]" He stood, then pulled her up into his embrace.

"[Bringing a baby into a world that has no hope of surviving.]"

"[Maybe.]" He whispered a few words into the intercom before resuming. "[But hope is alive so long as even one human is. That's why you'll both be down in the silo with Papa and Stasi. Besides, I'm a pretty hard kill.]"

"[He won't even have the chance to know you,]" she wept.

"[No great loss.]"

  
  


***

  
  


The delivery room was eerily quiet despite the throng of people and machines attached to and working on the petite patient. Mulder sat at her head, her eyes only occasionally focusing when she drifted in, and out, of consciousness as she had in recent days. The lights were sun-bright but the voices were muted, nearly obscured by the beeping machines that monitored both mother and baby's heartbeats.

"This may pull a bit," the doctor warned, seemingly elbow-deep in patient. 

The patient, herself, nodded vacantly, mumbled, "Just take care of the baby."

The father sat stone-silent, tears streaming down his cadaverous face.

An awful slurping sound preceded the production of what appeared to be a cream-cheese-covered baby doll draped, silent and motionless, over the doctor's hand. The mother's hand reached for it but in an instant it was gone, surrounded by gowned figures, moving feverishly.

"How is she?" the mother asked.

The father cooed into her ear.

"Please tell me she's okay," the mother begged.

"BP's dropping," the anesthesiologist warned.

"Do something," the father begged.

"Is she okay?" the mother insisted, groggily.

"Stay with us, Dana," the doctor ordered.

"Do something!" the father insisted.

The doctors held a terse conversation amidst a flurry of activity. "She's closed," one doctor announced.

"BP's rising."

"What about the baby?" the mother cried. "Please, please . . ."

The activity in the corner slowed and a faint mewling broke the silence of the room.

"Samantha?" the mother called desperately. "Mulder, please," both arms quivered as she held them toward the sound source, "please, I have to see her, to feel her . . ."

The father shot the doctor a questioning look.

"Dana," the doctor replied calmly. "The baby is two months premature. She's having trouble breathing and needs to go on to the NICU."

"No, please," Scully's arm flailed toward the incubator, "please let me touch her before you take her away."

"Scully, they can't," Mulder stroked her forehead. "She needs some help right now."

"Please let me touch her . . ."

"Scully, you'll have plenty of time to hold her," the father comforted, but his eyes begged the doctor for help.

"Please, oh God, please, just a touch."

The doctor nodded and a glass box appeared at her side, its lobster-colored occupant flailing about like an upended beetle. Instinctively, the mother's hand found the opening in the side and, in a heartbeat, her finger was gently stroking the prominent ribs and deceptively puffy cheeks. The tiny form calmed, as if recognizing someone intimately familiar. The father slipped his hand inside the box, too, his large paw ruffling the cinnamon-colored fuzz on the baby's head.

"I love you, baby girl," the mother whispered urgently.

"She'll be alright," the father whispered strongly. "She has her mother's strength."

Too soon, much too soon, the incubator was wheeled away, leaving the parents with empty arms and broken hearts.

  
  


***

  
  


"[One more push, baby, and it'll be over.]"

"[That's what you said the last time, Krycek.]"

"[So I lied,]" he breathed into her ear, struggling to maintain their position on the birthing bench while she pushed back into him.

"[Again,]" she grimaced, tensing again with the contraction.

He leaned forward into her back, his arms circling above her belly. "[Push, baby.]"

"[I see the head,]" Anastasia announced, her hands moving feverishly but confidently.

"[Now, Alex,]" Marita grimaced and Alex Krycek looked over her shoulder, witness to the most amazing sight of his life.

Sound ceased for him, shouts diminished to muted whispers. Time slowed to a blessed crawl as he watched his son emerge, inch by inch, into the waiting hands of his mother. She cradled her child while the pulsing cord was tied, then severed, his lusty cries filling the room. She nuzzled him to her breast and he, following primal instinct, suckled ferociously. "[His father's son,]" she chuckled.

Anastasia, having finished the ablutions, led them all to their bed and with a kiss, disappeared. The new parents clung to each other, their child between them. Joined now by much more than simple passion, they gazed into each other's eyes, solemnizing this joyous event with the only promise that counted at this moment.

"[I love you.]"

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Chapter 9

  
  


Walter Skinner rounded the corner to a familiar sight: Mulder, surrounded by a coterie of doctors. His posture reflected the months of agonizing waiting he'd endured-the most recent weeks being the worst. Scully had been in torment, the pressure of her growing tumor causing blinding headaches and violent mood swings. She'd been kept sedated for the most part, awakening only when the pain became too great. The baby-named Samantha, of course- had nearly died, her premature lungs suffering the burning effect of oxygen. But, with copious treatment, she'd survived and had improved to the point that she could leave the nursery to room in with her parents for short periods of time-which, judging by the warning sign on the door, was where she was at this moment.

Mulder stood at the breech, fending off this squad of medicos, swollen, purplish lids hooding his now-perennially-bloodshot eyes. The older man paused, lending privacy to the younger man, until Mulder's lids fluttered and he swayed like a tall, withered plant in a strong wind. In an instant Skinner's hand clasped his upper arm, steadying him.

"While the baby is ready to leave, Ms. Scully's condition continues to deteriorate," the youngest of the doctors intoned. "For her comfort we suggest that she remain here until . . ."

Mulder swallowed hard. "She doesn't want to stay; she doesn't want to be separated from Samantha for a moment."

"We understand that, Mr. Mulder, but Ms. Scully's condition . . ."

"There's nothing you can do for her. She doesn't want to die _here_."

A robed nurse pushing a bassinet scooted past them into the room.

"I know you're concerned, Mr. Mulder, but I don't think you understand-"

Mulder's face turned red. "Oh, I understand. My wife just gave birth to a daughter she won't live to see grow up. I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to make sure that little girl gets to know a mother she won't even remember."

Mulder's eyes flashed fire, the first sign of life Walter Skinner had observed in the younger man in months. Then tears quenched the flame.

"She wants to go home. As kind and caring as your staff has been, she wants to die in peace, surrounded by all the people who love her." The voice cracked, "Please."

The nurse rolled the bassinet, baby Samantha snoozing contentedly on her belly, through the awkward silence. The doctors studied their shoes for a moment.

Walter Skinner's head jerked up suddenly. "Um, nurse?" He followed the nurse and bassinet. "Nurse?"

The nurse froze, momentarily, still facing away.

"May I see your identification please?" Walter Skinner advanced warily, right hand gripping the weapon under his suit coat.

The nurse remained silent. Skinner continued his advance, followed by the baby's father.

"Call security," the father ordered.

"Step away from the child and put your hands in the air," the AD ordered.

The nurse, taller than average and stoutly built, complied slowly, leaning against the nearest wall. Skinner kicked her feet further apart while patting down the limbs and torso. Then she flickered and, in the blink of an eye, he found himself facing a tall, blonde giant of a man with a face like chiseled cold steel. Cat-quick the former nurse swung, knocking the weapon from the AD. Lightning-quick the old soldier responded by planting a spike in the base of the nurse's neck just as Mulder snatched up Samantha and ran toward Scully's room.

"Get out of here," Skinner ordered, shielding his eyes while retreating from the noxious fumes emitted by the nurse's body. He followed Mulder, first standing guard, then running rear guard as they made their escape to someplace safe, wherever that might be.

  
  


***

  
  


Scalding water streamed over him, coercing overtired muscles to decompress. In months past he would have waked up Marita and found his release in their white-hot passion. But tonight he settled for showering, toweling dry, and sharing warm, snowy sheets with his lady and his son. Rolling on his side to face them, he slid the arm-stump under his pillow, tangling his feet with hers and stroking the tiny back that slumbered peacefully between his parents' hearts.

"Hi." Her water-blue eyes blinked sleepily as he brushed a gentle, adoring kiss across her lips. Then he did the same among the cottony tufts on the baby's head.

"Hi."

"[Did you finish?]"

He swallowed hard. "[Sort of.]"

Her silence begged him to continue.

"[We've gone as far as we can with the current antibody pool.]"

"[Success rate?]"

"[Still ninety-eight percent effective for Rh-negative subjects; not even fifty percent for Rh-positive subjects.]"

  
  


"[Those numbers don't sound too bad, Alex.]"

"[The numbers lie. The vaccine is virtually ineffective on the O-positive antigen type. Thirty-nine percent of the world's population is O-positive. Despite all of our work, over two billion people will be defenseless against the alien virus.]"

"[But I thought you said the antibodies in the baby's blood would be stronger . . .]"

"[They were,]" Krycek soothed the suddenly restless child. "[The antibodies from Itzhak's blood made the difference for two-and-a-half-billion people, Marita. But you're type A-negative and I'm type AB-negative which makes him type B-negative. We can splice the antibody sequence into all the AB-antigen types and even the O-negative type. But we can't get a good graft with the O-positive DNA. It won't accept the antibody sequence.]"

She covered his trembling hand with hers. "[You, your father and Anastasia have done in a short time what the Consortium failed to do in fifty years, Alex. The vaccine you developed will save most of us from bondage. The world will survive because of your work.]"

"[Not _all_ of the world.]" He rested his forehead against hers, silent, shame-filled tears glistening in the half-light.

"[_Most_ of it.]" Angel-kisses, full of hope, wiped away the tears. "[Alexei,]" she paused, eyes burning brightly, "[you're a hero.]" She brushed a wet kiss across his parched lips. "[You're our hero.]" The tender kiss hardened, demanding, and receiving, and ardent response. Her smooth calf caressed his, her knee lingering at his thighs expectantly. "[It's been three weeks.]"

He groaned as she coaxed her knee even higher. "[Nearly four,]" he rasped. "[But,]" with a final kiss he pulled away from her, "[Stasi will kill me if we don't wait a while longer.]"

"[How long?]"

"[Two more weeks,]" he sighed, dejectedly.

He could feel, and see, the heat rising in her cheeks. "[You discuss our sex life with your _sister_?]"

"_Nyet_," he grinned. "[She discusses it with me.]" His hand brushed her cheek. "[And she says wait until you're stronger.]"

"[There are times when your family is a little too close-knit.]"

She mirrored his rueful smile. Little Itzhak stirred, his tiny cry piercing the silence. She pulled the child close, unbuttoning her soft sleep-shirt, his tiny mouth seeking, and finally finding, succor.

"[Lucky,]" the father teased, curling himself around his family.

"[Lucky to have a father like you.]"

"[No,]" Alex protested but she stopped it with a kiss that warmed him not only with passion, but with hope.

"[How long can you stay with us?]"

He stroked Itzhak's leg and nuzzled her cheek. "[Distribution begins day after tomorrow.]"

"[So soon?]"

"[The sooner we start, the more lives we save. Moses says the advance reconnaissance raids are already under way.]"

"[I thought we'd have more time.]" A tear rolled down her cheek.

"[We will,]" he vowed, tightening his embrace, both of them ignoring for a moment the reality that would make a liar of him.

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Chapter 10

  
  


"Where are we going?" Mulder had asked sometime during their first night.

"Mount Nebo," Skinner had answered, never taking his eyes off the road. 

Three days later he was equally cryptic, but infinitely more grouchy after sleeping little more than a few hours of the previous seventy-two. He'd done most of the driving, allowing Mulder and Maggie Scully to spell him when sleep overtook him. Somewhere outside Minneapolis he'd pulled into a used car lot and traded his land-barge Crown Victoria for an older Suburban.

"State car of Texas," he'd grinned sheepishly as he'd transferred the luggage while Mulder carried Scully and Maggie transferred baby Samantha.

"Where are we going, Walter?" Maggie Scully had asked after everyone else had drifted off to sleep.

"A safe place. Maybe the only safe place."

"But where, Walter?"

Skinner stared into the rear-view mirror, watching for any signs of wakefulness on the part of the occupants. Satisfied that they were, essentially, alone he responded to Maggie Scully's question with a question of his own. "Do you know what's coming, Maggie? Not just for Dana, but for the world?"

"Fox has said some things, tried to tell me some pretty unbelievable stories about alien invasions-"

"Believe them."

"Excuse me?"

"Believe them, Maggie. They're true."

An oncoming car illuminated the shocked look on her face. "Little green men and-"

"They're gray, actually."

Her jaw practically grazed her chest.

"Over forty years ago representatives of the major powers agreed to collaborate with an alien race to buy time to develop the means of survival-a vaccine against a virus they were planning to use to destroy us. In the meantime, another alien race has become interested and now we are the spoils in an extraterrestrial war."

They rode in an uneasy silence for a long time, until the first rosy tendrils of dawn shone in the rear-view mirror.

"What about the vaccine?" Her voice shook as she finally spoke again.

The hum of asphalt had been replaced by the crunch of large gravel. "The government research has been spectacularly unsuccessful. But-" He guided the heavy vehicle to a smooth stop. "Recently, scientists loyal to the growing Human Resistance have developed a vaccine that is nearly seventy percent effective."

"And that's where we're going?"

He nodded. "That's where we are." A metallic scraping preceded the appearance of his weapon in his large paw. "Wait here," he ordered, stepping out into the coolish pre-dawn. The slamming of the passenger door confirmed for him that Dana Scully had inherited her innate curiosity from her mother.

"Stop!" a voice ordered from the treeline.

They obeyed, Skinner's free hand ushering her behind him.

"What do you want?" the voice boomed.

"I need to see the head of the research team. I have a new antibody source for the vaccine."

Maggie Scully gasped and tried to pull away but his firm grasp detained her.

"And who might you be?"

"Moses."

  
  


***

  
  


Dana Scully shifted stiffly, her fluttering hand seeking the velvet warmth of Samantha's tiny body that was strapped into the giant car seat. The pink dawn had become a glorious morning -the sun painting gold on everything in its path. Samantha cooed at her touch but did not stir. Her father snored gently, head lolled against the door, feet stretched all the way over to her side of the vehicle. Scully nudged him gently with her toe and he moaned, his moans could be delicious she remembered, but this moan conveyed only sorrow and exhaustion.

She tried to lift her head but it had been too heavy for some days now, just as she'd been unable to completely focus her vision since the baby's birth. So she relied on hearing and feeling and right now she felt stillness and hear only the rustle of the wind in the grasses. They had stopped, in the middle of nowhere it seemed, and Skinner and her mother were not in sight. She nudged her husband again, eliciting a groan, but the sight of black-clad strangers made the next nudge a kick. Their hand on the car door elicited a feeble but anguished cry, turning to a kitten-roar when she realized what, or who, they wanted.

Samantha. Gloved, evil hands were reaching across her, ignoring blows from her rag-doll arms, to steal her child away. She kicked, scratched, cursed, nothing stopped them, not even Mulder's fierce but weak attempts at rescue, but still she fought, like a dying lioness for her only cub, until a bright, white pain engulfed her.

  
  


***

  
  


She awoke to a terrifyingly familiar voice. Opening her now-dull blue eyes she focused enough to recognize the face of the voice's owner- a face looming over her Samantha with a syringe in hand.

"No!" Samantha's mother cried with as much strength as she could muster. She pushed herself to her feet but the world tipped and she toppled into Mulder's nearby arms. "He killed Melissa!"

The child uttered a cry then bawled, the sure hands of an older woman holding her down gently but firmly.

"[Quiet, quiet, sweet little one,]" the woman cooed to the frightened child, "[it will be over soon.]" She continued to hum and shush comfortingly and, after a moment, the child quieted. She could make out Krycek swishing around a vial of red before he scooped up the child and deposited her in her mother's arms with surprising gentleness.

"We've been working on a vaccine for several years, but our antibody sources carried the negative antigen." His hands moved swiftly among the machines and the dishes. "We managed to overcome the Rh-factor problem in the AB-types but the O-positive type remained resistant. That meant the vaccine would not be effective on nearly thirty percent of the population. Two billion people would face the alien virus unprotected. We needed an O-positive antibody source."

"Samantha," Scully breathed. "You can't have her," she tucked the child deeper into her embrace.

"Relax, Agent Scully. I already have her--at least what I need of her." Krycek swirled a crimson test tube.

"They just needed a blood sample," Mulder comforted.

"No," she raged. "He killed Melissa, and your father, and now he wants to kill Samantha!" She struggled to get up until crimson gushed from her nostril. Swiftly, Mulder scooped up his daughter, handing her to her grandmother, and pulled his wife's head down into his lap, tilting it back and wiping away the blood with the towel Anastasia Krycek had offered him. She raged on but he held on until she stilled, sobbing, her tears diluting the blood to a watery pink.

Krycek didn't try to hide the shock on his face. "Rough postpartum?"

"End-stage nasopharyngeal carcinoma." Skinner snarled from only inches away. "It should have taken her months ago but she held on until Samantha was born despite being unable to take her treatments."

"How long?" Krycek's voice trembled.

Skinner merely shook his head. "What you did to me," he said pointedly. "Can that help her? Get rid of the cancer?"

Krycek watched Mulder's tender ministrations. The bony hands stroked her face so gently while tears flowed freely from sunken sockets. The skin hung loosely, dully, with no fat to soften the skeletal angles. "Mulder looks like hell."

"That's where he's been for the last eight months."

Krycek dragged his right hand down his stubbled, weary face. "It could kill her if the cancer's metastasized."

For the first time Skinner noticed the dark metal ring Krycek wore on his third finger. Terror flashed through the icy blue eyes, mirroring that in Mulder's, of a husband facing the reality of watching his lady love being taken away so horrifically. He moved stiffly toward an opened safe, but stopped, instead accepting a prepared hypodermic Anastasia Krycek offered with a knowing nod.

"What's that?" Mulder asked suspiciously while Krycek sought a viable blood vessel on Scully's scarecrow arm. Scully did not move, her eyes fixed and glassy.

Krycek ran his fingers over her papery skin until he found a strong blue line along the inside of her upper arm. "NBTV. Non-biological technovirus."

She did not flinch at the needle prick and Krycek depressed the syringe's plunger. "They're in," his reply preceded the sound of clicking computer keyboard keys. "Upload profile."

"That's what you did to Skinner and he nearly died," Mulder spat.

"Yeah, well, he didn't and the little buggers did the job they were sent to do."

"Short of a miracle, Mulder, you know it's her only hope." Skinner had moved behind the stained naugahyde sofa and was whispering softly.

"How's the upload, Stasi?" Scully's skin had become a mottled blue, blood vessels thickening dangerously.

"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine percent, it's done."

"Do something," Mulder demanded when her limp body went rigid.

"Krycek," Skinner admonished.

"It will take a few minutes for them to respond," Krycek answered, his warm, beringed hand brushing against her again-ashen cheek. "Stasi?"

"Contact with the cancer cells," the older woman responded. "Commencing self-destruct."

"What?" Skinner grabbed Krycek. "I thought you were helping her."

Krycek wrested his arm away from the larger man. "I am. The self-destruct sequence is an electronic overload. The current released will destroy adjacent tissue- the cancer-- and cauterize any compromised blood vessels."

Mulder thought for a long moment. "And if the cancer's metastasized?"

"She won't suffer." Maggie Scully, who'd been quietly rocking Samantha, gasped at Krycek's reply. "It will be over quickly."

Mulder pulled his wife closer into a desperate embrace. "I'm not ready for it to be over." Sorrow choked his voice.

Comfort came from an odd corner. "Our hearts never are, Mulder." Tears glistened as though the icy eyes were melting. Krycek backed away slowly, silently returning to his work while watching the computer screen.

The minutes ticked by, silence interrupted by Mulder's and Maggie Scully's snuffles, Skinner's pacing and Krycek's restless manipulation of the lab equipment. The only sound Scully emitted was labored breaths which slowed, spacing further and further apart until . . .

"Alex," a sharp, desperate voice cried from the door. Its owner rushed to the lab table, to Krycek who immediately drew them- Marita and the baby she clutched- closer. Her whisper rang around the concrete walls, echoing back seemingly a thousand times. "There's something wrong with Itzhak."

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Chapter 11

  
  


Fox Mulder stood before the half-closed door, the voices from inside echoing through the empty bunker. He'd come to express his thanks to a sworn enemy-thanks for saving the life of his wife who lay, resting comfortably and happily, six stories below them. But now, standing at the door, he realized that his enemy had no time for his thanks.

"[When did you know, Krycek? When did you know Itzhak would die?]"

"[The amnio,]" he replied emptily. "[The reactivated DNA showed up on the amnio.]"

"[And you didn't tell me?]"

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. Despite the language difference, he picked up the drift of the conversation.

"[There was no point to it.]"

"[There was no point to telling me the baby I was carrying was infected with an alien virus that would kill him?]"

"[He wasn't infected, Marita. He was genetically altered _in utero_ by the tests to be immune to the virus. But the process caused genetic damage, enough that he could not survive."

"[Then why would you let him be born in the first place?]" Her eyes grew wide. "[The antibodies,]" the pitch of her voice rose with the volume. "[You bastard, you wanted the antibodies.]" She was screaming now, her fists thudding against his motionless form. "[You just wanted him for the vaccine. Ghoul!]" Her fists pummeled , her voice a ragged banshee cry. "[You sacrificed your son for the sake of your precious vaccine!]"

"May I help you?" Krycek's voice boomed from behind the very large Glock that was now pointed at the center of Mulder's forehead.

Mulder swallowed hard, but not from his own fear. He choked at the tinny notes of terror he heard in his enemy's voice, at the tear-stained face. "I, uh," he swallowed again. "I just came to say thank you."

The Glock disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "You're welcome." The flat, lifeless intonation thudded off the concrete walls.

Mulder shuffled his feet restlessly.

"Was there something else?"

"No. Yes." Mulder studied the ring on his hand. "I'm sorry. About your son."

Krycek gazed mistily across the concrete bunker. "Yeah, well, it's probably what I deserve-meed for the deathsman."

Mulder shook his head. "Nobody deserves to see his child die. Or hers."

"It's the ultimate irony. I was created to end lives; he was born to save them. But to do that he had to die -to pay for my sins, I think. He was my Pascal Lamb." Krycek's eyes remained unfocused after a long blink. "She was yours, you know. Emily."

Mulder cast his eyes down before meeting Krycek's now-focused gaze.

"But the biology didn't matter, did it? She was always yours in your heart."

Mulder nodded.

"It's funny, you know. How you can become attached to something, someone, in a mere eighteen days."

"Or less."

Krycek nodded, eyes squinching shut while Mulder's footsteps scurried away. He stood, silent, motionless, etching for all time the shape of his son's face on his memory until a hand circled his arm, gently pulling him back inside.

"[I know why you didn't tell me,]" she clutched a tiny, empty blanket. "[You didn't want to spoil it for me.]"

He chuffed. "[I wish I were that noble.]" He tugged at the tail of the tiny coverlet, pulling her into his embrace. "[He was my firstborn son.]"

"[And mine.]"

They shared the wracking sobs, the first since they'd returned their son to the Earth in the sighing shelter of a knotty pine tree, until they stilled, breathless, tearless, supported only by their shared strength.

"[How long?]" she whispered. "[How long until you have to leave?]"

He smoothed her hair. "[Six hours.]"

"[What if the vaccine doesn't work? What will you do?]"

He pressed his lips against the top of her head. "[Stay. Topside. Until they're gone or we are.]"

She shuddered. "[Don't leave me here, Alex. Don't leave me here alone.]"

"[You won't be alone,]" he cooed. "[You'll have Papa and Anastasia and her family and -]"

"[Don't leave me here alone. Empty.]" She nuzzled his chest.

"[It's too soon, love, too soon, too soon . . .]" His protests weakened.

"[Please,]" she begged, tugging at his heart. "[Please.]"

  
  


***

  
  


So this is how it would end: not in conflagration and immolation but with assimilation, gestation, then annihilation. Walter Skinner buttoned his shirt, his handgun neatly tucked inside the waistband of his jeans. He mulled over his role in the plans he'd set forth nearly seven years ago when he'd first assumed the role of Moses. It was time, now, for mankind to leave the Wilderness and step over into Canaan. If it worked, mankind would survive and even prevail. If not . . . "[Please,]" he breathed, crossing himself three times.

"I never knew you were a religious man, Walter." Maggie Scully sat primly next to him.

"You know what they say about atheists and foxholes."

She smiled.

He fumbled with his collar button and she brushed his hands away, nimbly fastening the button. He grabbed both wrists. "Find a good man and be happy, Maggie Scully."

She laced her fingers through his. "Like you found a good woman?"

He grinned. "Just my luck. We were both still in love with other people."

"Yes, we were. Friends?" She wrapped her arms around his waist. He sighed at the remembrance of the comfort a woman's touch afforded.

"Friends," he whispered. "Take care of them."

"I promise."

"Shall we?" he offered his arm most ceremoniously.

"I'd be delighted," she giggled, matching his strides into the crowded meeting room.

Conversations quieted as he ascended the steps. "By now," he shouted, too loudly. "By now," his adjusted his volume. "You each have your distribution assignments. I don't think I have to tell you that your mission is, very simply, to save the world." He looked over the sea of faces. "We'll know in fourteen days if we were successful. You know what you have to do. God help us all." The room fell oddly silent as the warriors, sick to death of war, took their leave to do final battle.

"I should be going," Mulder said quietly.

"Someone has to stay," Skinner replied. "I'm too old."

"And I'm too evil," Krycek interjected. "Besides, your daughter deserves to know her father."

Dana Scully, skin radiating increasing health, pulled her husband into an embrace.

Walter Skinner continued his trek toward the blast door.

"Be safe, Walter Skinner," Maggie Scully said quietly.

He stopped, grasping her hand between his. "Be happy, Maggie Scully."

Alex Krycek lingered. "[I never planned to fall in love with a bitch like you,]" he whispered huskily, his warm hand brushing Marita's cheek.

"[And I never planned to fall in love with a bastard like you.]" She kissed his hand then spread it against her belly. "[Come home to us when you're done saving the world.]"

"[I love . . .]"

She sealed his vow with a kiss, long, passionate, hopeful.

Tearfully he followed the teams into the moonlight night, kissing his ring, then watching and waving as the gaping maw of the bunker ground shut.

"[I love you,]" she vowed, praying that her empty arms would soon be filled again.

  
  


***

  
  


The communications room became sort of widow's walk where the wives and families breathlessly watched the news reports of a global "influenza epidemic." Over ninety percent of the world was infected with the mild strain, but very few deaths were reported. No person watched with more intensity than Anastasia and Alexandre Krycek who, on the third day, as if mankind had risen from some tomb, pronounced the fateful words, "We've won."

The first of the teams returned on the fifth day, flush with their victory. The remainder streamed in over the next few days, departing with their families back to their normal lives. The radio crackled on the eighth day, bringing with it a message that "Moses" had returned to his family in Texas. By the tenth day nearly all of the teams had returned. By the eleventh day, all of the teams had returned save one. "[We need you,]" Marita breathed as she hunched over the short wave, her hand gently rubbing her bellyful of hope. She stayed by the radio, hardly eating, seldom sleeping until, on the fourteenth day, a familiar voice crackled the speaker saying only two words, "[Come home.]"

  
  


[Top][13]

  
  


### Epilogue

  
  


One Christmas had passed and another loomed only days away since the world had nearly ended. Samantha Mulder ran more than walked now, her cinnamon hair flying behind her. Her mother lunged to keep her busy hands off the holiday tree bedecked with both angels and dreidels. Prevented from redecorating she turned her attention to helping her father with his job, wrapping presents. Joyfully she plopped in the middle of the paper he'd just cut, as though she were the grandest of presents. Her father could only smile and sweep her into the dearest of embraces, sending her on to help her grandmother cook. As her little steps receded, the computer announced the arrival of messages.

"I'll get it," Mulder spared his again-expectant Scully the task of getting up from the floor.

A few keytaps brought greetings from Walter Skinner, now a gentleman horse-rancher in Texas. Spying a few words for Maggie Scully, Mulder clicked to print them without reading them. A few more keytaps brought the oddest of messages. The sender's name was blank, the header information garbage even to a DOD-quality decryption program. But the hard drive churned and an image painted the screen. It wasn't just an image, but a movie clip and Mulder, curiosity getting the better of his common sense, clicked on "Play."

Christmas music crackled the speakers, peppered with baby giggles. A cotton-topped child toddled into the picture, steadied by its mother's strong hand. The mother was pregnant, too, very, and her face beamed. The view widened to include a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who teetered atop a ladder adjusting a treetop angel.

"Krycek?" Scully breathed incredulously over his shoulder.

"Well, it ain't Ozzie and Harriet."

"Or Boris and Natasha."

His tree-trimming task completed, the man descended the ladder, hooking an arm around his wife and child.

As the picture faded to black, Krycek voiced their message.

"From our family to yours, we wish you joy, we wish you peace and we wish you hope in the future that you helped to preserve."

Fox Mulder pulled his wife into his lap, embracing her as he prayed to that God in whom he'd gained new-found confidence, "Shalom to you, Alex Krycek. You've earned it."

  
  


End Deathsman's Meed

minismith@aol.com

   [1]: #Chapter 1 
   [2]: #Chapter 2
   [3]: #Chapter 3
   [4]: #Chapter 4
   [5]: #Chapter 5
   [6]: #Chapter 6
   [7]: #Chapter 7
   [8]: #Chapter 8
   [9]: #Chapter 9
   [10]: #Chapter 10
   [11]: #Chapter 11
   [12]: #Epilogue
   [13]: #Table of Contents



End file.
